


abstract

by princess_syd



Category: One Direction (Band), zayn malik - Fandom
Genre: Multi, artist!zayn, just a sample
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 14:39:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3772033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princess_syd/pseuds/princess_syd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn Malik is the brightest face in modern art, comparable to all the greats. Work in progress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	abstract

**Author's Note:**

> this is a taste of a fic i'm working on, please please please tell me what you think in the comments or message me on tumblr @zadre!! artist zayn is one of my favorite zayns so i gave it a go!! enjoy xo

Zayn was pressed against the cold brick wall dividing his flat from the monochromatic wasteland of city ten stories below. The air was stagnant, reeking of cigarettes, and there was an insistent throb inside his right temple. He had no positivity anywhere in or around him, and very little incentive to acknowledge he had a life to live. But he considered it a good day anyway, because there was a slight charge in the air that hinted at new inspiration yet to be found.

His existence was a cliche and he knew it well, but for one glimmering originality: he was inspired by the prospect of inspiration. He saw the lines following a bird’s wings, the shades of white billowing from his yet-to-cool tea. Zayn saw them as something for another artist to interpret. His art was something else, a flow of patterns and words that interlocked to form a brilliantly complex canvas no one but he could decipher-but they loved it. Critics and aesthetic-obsessed kids swallowed it without chewing. He was hanging in the MoMA at the ripe age of twenty. 

Among the paint-splattered Acne jeans and intentionally holey sweaters littering his floors were canvases, sketchpads, watercolors and every other tangible art supply. There were Moleskines and knitting needles and a pottery wheel. He couldn’t bear curbing his appetite for the production of a piece. Into his penthouse flat he’d installed a darkroom and decorated his walls with Polaroids, 8x10s of his own nude figure sprawled across white sheets, paper dolls, receipts written in blotted red ink for his first collections. It was an artist’s dream home, abundant in ideas but not in food or company. Music spun only at nights when he found himself desperate for human voices to wash over him. Zayn was likely to fall into his own sort of hypnosis, when lines between hands and mediums blurred. Reality was not a base for him, but rather the horizon at the edge of the ocean-he could not reach it no matter how far he swam, only see it painting his life before him.

Today was no different from the last, not in the grand scheme of things, but from the artist’s skewed viewpoint there was no greater watershed so far.

Inky hair hardened from soft tendrils framing dark eyes into an erect quiff that suggested vanity-but for good reason. Artists tend to recognize beauty, and his own self was no exception. He slipped into an unassuming white sweater and his trademark painted denim-instantly recognizable as Zayn Malik, artist to redefine artistry. As was tattooed across his trapezius, "I am not as bright as the flash on their cameras."

The artist hailed a cab-easily, as was to be expected from someone who stood with so much quiet grace.

"Le Louvre," he spoke, and they were ants crawling through the streets of Paris. 

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

French was not a language he cared to know well, but he spoke it for the benefit of those around him. Zayn disliked inconveniencing anyone or causing any sort of disturbance-another reason he stayed out of the spotlight, venturing out to events only to appease those who worked for his success. This one wasn't one to dread after all, for he enjoyed the brightness of people's smiles, the easy way with which they talked, obsessing over the smallest details and crying for nothing worth their tears.

Arriving in a cab was apparently a grand artistic gesture that he had by no means intended but took full advantage of. A brightly painted woman with an over-analytical gaze led Zayn into a stark white foyer, where more smiles awaited him along with flutes of champagne, which he refused. The Girls-a term he had taken to calling the four women that presided over his social life and ensured his wellbeing-greeted him in unison, all wearing next season's trends and smelling of expensive perfume. "You look classic, love, hungry?" Jade's sentences were always three-in-one. 

He shook his head once, reaching out to twist a curl so that it hung down over one eye. She pulled a strand from his quiff in return. "J, please." 

She studied him with all the scrutiny of a mother examining her son's outfit on the first day of school. "An improvement, I'd say. Very...Alex Turner." Zayn huffed but left it hanging, following the flowered scents in front of him to a room filled with people wearing black, looking at the plain white wall facing a projector. 

“If everyone could please give your utmost attention to the artist himself-Mr. Zayn Malik!” Perrie began. Collectively they all turned to face him, faces smiling, expectant. He cleared his throat. “I’d like to thank everyone for um, coming, I hope you all enjoy it. Um, if there’s any questions feel free to ask me. Go ahead, Pez.” Zayn’s quiet voice faded, to be replaced by a series of whispers from the crowd. Two men walked in holding what appeared to be a thousand pictures held together by strings. There were screenshots of Youtube videos and Polaroids of his childhood friends. Laminated magazine clippings and old Christmas cards and ticket stubs. What had first looked like strings, they all saw, were wires ripped from various machines. It hung from the ceiling, halfway between the projector and a bare white wall. 

Perrie let the spectators study the patchworked variety of pictures for a few minutes before turning on the projector. Whispers erupted from all corners of the room. What was a mere collage now cast a shadow that was obviously meant to represent the human mind. Wires wound throughout the piece resembled veins and tendons. Perrie then changed the filter on the projector. In shadowy lettering “Abstract of the Modern Perception” flickered across the wall. It stayed that way for a few more minutes, then the lights came on. 

People began making their way across the room to the artist, congratulating him on his brilliance and telling him how much they would pay him to exhibit his art in their museums. He received them all with a tired smile, excited for the opportunities ahead.


End file.
